


By Other Hands

by micehell



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: A little angst, M/M, a little smut, post-Trio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-05
Updated: 2008-04-05
Packaged: 2017-11-12 04:10:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/micehell/pseuds/micehell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Looking at his hands, Rodney thought how inconvenient this was going to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Other Hands

Rodney sat on his couch looking at his bandaged hands, thinking about how incredibly inconvenient they were going to be. Typing would be a bitch, as would eating, and the eating was only going to lead to another situation that was going to be a problem because of the damn things. He was still making lists in his minds of all the ways it was going to suck when John knocked on his door.

He'd obviously already heard what had happened, because he didn't ask about the bandages, just grimaced, and gave Rodney a rueful smile. "Wow, that's going to suck for you. I guess you won't be masturbating for a while."

Scowling at the reminder -- and adding yet another item to his list -- Rodney said, "Well, if negotiating with alien settlements _had_ been the reason you joined the Air Force, then maybe you'd have the hugely inconvenient bandages on your hands, and you wouldn't find this so amusing."

John took Rodney's hands in his, holding loosely so it didn't hurt, and nodded. "You're right. Just think, though, if you play your sympathy card right, you could probably make out like a bandit over this. Think how many pudding cups you can wrangle away from people if you show them your heroically gained wounds."

Rodney tried to keep the scowl, but the image of getting a pudding cup away from Ronon without having to worry about retribution was too good not to smile. "It's already worked, really. Jennifer took me out for drinks, earlier."

"Jennifer?"

"Yeah, Jennifer. You know, Dr. Keller. She took me out after she finished bandaging my hands. Hey, do you think she was coming on to me?" If Rodney could have snapped his fingers then, he would have, his brain happily jumping to conclusions, no matter how improbable they were. "That was probably it, because I am fairly irresistible, after all…"

He trailed off when he saw how still John had gone. He was looking down at Rodney's hands, still loosely held in his own, and if you didn't know him, you'd think there was nothing wrong. But while Rodney was blind to far too many social cues, this one of John's he had finally learned. There was an internal war going on, John's lips parting as he almost said something, then closing as he retreated. Talking won, finally, the words soft, but bitten out all the same. "I can't, Rodney. Not again. I stepped aside last time, but… I just can't."

Rodney would have liked to say it was the daydream image of Radek handing over his cup of coffee in deference to Rodney's noble sacrifice that had distracted him, made him not even think about what it was he was saying, but it hadn't been. It was just a blindness, almost as old as he was, and an ego that was both too large and too small, and sometimes both within the space of a moment. His hands fluttered helplessly in John's, the bandages making it hard to express himself, like he'd been gagged, but needing to make John understand. "No. Not that. That was just… that was just. It was bar games and a couple of drinks, and I think she might actually like me. You know, me me, rather than date me. Or whatever."

John stopped him before he could ramble on any further, eyes brightening with understanding. And amusement. "Yeah, I know. I'm sort of fond of you you as well."

For someone as easygoing as John was, his moods still bore so much weight, Rodney's lightening in their wake. Back on the same wavelength again, Rodney could feel himself preening a little under what John had said. Or rather implied, since the idiot seemed to think he was being charged by the word or something. "See, I told you. I'm irresistible."

"I thought that was invulnerable."

He laughed at that, like John had meant for him to, but he could only wish it were true. He'd spent a lifetime trying to armor himself, but it was still too easy to get hurt, even inadvertently, and in ways that had nothing to do with the Wraith, nothing to do with strangers at all. And it was too easy to give out the hurt, never even realizing what he was doing until it had already happened. He was learning, but it was like the part of his brain that needed to know this stuff was damaged. Like the part of his mind that understood social interaction had never recovered from that time, when he was eight, and he'd spent that one -- hideous -- day at hockey camp, where another boy's derisive "Nerd" and hockey stick had hit him upside the head with equal force. Or maybe it was from that time, when he was fifteen and alone, and a whole bottle of vodka had seemed like such a good idea. Or any of a thousand other times when what he'd imagined would happen, and what actually had, were nowhere even close, a lesson he took to heart each time, sure he'd learned it. Until the next time.

Rodney wondered if maybe that was what it was like to be normal, to have to learn things in pieces at a time, but it didn't really matter in the end. It was just something he had to work around. Something they had to work around, because he knew that John had his damage, too, lessons that he could never really learn. That Rodney wasn't going to leave him, at least not voluntarily, seemed to be the hardest, but it wasn't always easy to tell, not with the king of amused detachment. So there they were, Rodney with his inability to read the signs, and John who was crap at giving any, and they'd probably always butt up against each other, little hurts and angers that were unnecessary. If it weren't for the near-telepathic wavelength they were both usually surfing, they wouldn't work at all, as friends or as lovers.

But for all the cues he might miss, there were some Rodney picked up on with no problem. Looking at John now, his head tilted and his lips quirked as he waited for Rodney's come-back to his gibe, Rodney remembered one that he'd recognized earlier in the very long day. "You were deliberately trying to drive me crazy with that lollipop, weren't you? And right in front of Sam, so I couldn't say anything about it."

John had the wide-eyed look going that he thought made him look innocent, even though no one had ever been fooled by it, but he lost it to laughter when Rodney huffed at him. "I have a high stress job, Rodney. I have to take my fun where I can find it."

"Tease."

And now John's eyes were narrowed, hooded, no attempt at innocence in them. He let go of Rodney's hands, moving his own to trail down Rodney's side, his waist, coming to rest over the fly of his pants, fingers curling lightly over the waistband to brush the bare skin behind. "It's not a tease if you plan to follow through, is it?"

Rodney didn't bother to answer, his own eyes almost rolling back in his head from anticipation. He had been twenty-two the first time he got a blow job, and he would never forget it. It had been over almost before he knew it, but it had still struck him to his core; the power of it, the helplessness. Like being both sultan and slave in the same fantasy. But even as good as a bad blow job could be, and as fucking fantastic as the good ones were, it wasn't until John that it had ever been anything beyond pleasure. The feel of those lips wrapping around his cock couldn't do for him what the sight of John on his knees did. Willingly down there, _needing_ to be there, to give to Rodney what he couldn’t, wouldn't, give to anyone else. It took Rodney's breath, every time, a spike to the pleasure centers in his brain, a pang in his heart, both of which could have killed him and he'd still have died a happy man.

Not that he'd ever admit that, except maybe under the threat of torture. Or here, whispering John's name, his thumb brushing over a stubbled cheek, over lips stretched wide around him, and Rodney always had to fight to keep his eyes closed, greedy for the sight in front of him, but wanting it to last, to last, and unable to hold back when he saw John's cheeks flushed and hollowed around Rodney, those lips as red and swollen as the cock John was jacking in quick, desperate strokes, and just as slick. Five minutes was Rodney's record for holding out, but he was usually lucky if it were two. And then he was coming, crying out at the vibration from John's muted groan as he followed Rodney over, orgasm hitting him as Rodney watched, cock twitching with delusions of grandeur, but still wanting John even when his body was sated.

They both collapsed on the couch afterwards. Rodney sat there, John half-leaning against him, his fly still open, cock hanging out and looking a little silly now that the moment was over, but his hands and post-coital lethargy made him tired even thinking about fixing it.

But John, even more eerily attuned to Rodney's thoughts after sex, overcame his own drowsiness to reach over and do him up. He left his hand on Rodney's waist, but that was affection rather than desire, a helping hand where Rodney needed it. And of all the cues he'd had to fight to learn, that was his favorite, the one that meant all of John's masks -- bad-ass soldier, cool-as-ice pilot, just-a-guy -- were down, and the soft and warm geek underneath, the one that needed affection and touch just as much as the rest of them, was plain to see. And if John on his knees made Rodney struggle to keep his eyes closed, John as just John made him struggle to keep them open, wanting just one more minute when it was only them.

He fell asleep between one breath and the next, making a list of all the things he couldn't do for himself while his hands were bandaged, but that John would.

/story


End file.
